His garden is overgrown. It has gone to seed.

A black-stemmed bamboo is stealing all the light.

My father comes downstairs for the tenth time today.

We sit and wait, knowing he’s going to say…

I want to go home.

I’m losing the thread.

Is it okay if I go back to bed?

I’m so unhappy…I wish was dead.

And what time is it anyway?

His sundial is buried beneath a shrub… He’s forgotten its name.

His bird table lies toppled on the lawn.

My father appears on the patio. We persuade him to stay,

drinking tea in his pyjamas, knowing he’s going to say …

I want to go home.

I’m losing the thread.

Is it okay if I go back to bed?

I’m so unhappy…I wish was dead.

And what time is it anyway?

A tangle of brambles runs through his rockery.

We can’t dig them out, so we try to cut them back.

My father goes upstairs for the tenth time today.

We guide him towards his room, knowing he’s going to say…

I want to go home.

I’m losing the thread.

Is it okay if I go back to bed?

I’m so unhappy…I wish was dead.